Fireflies
by HelplessTurtle
Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort’s rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.6:Dumbledore
1. Dumbledore&James

Title: Fireflies

Author: HelplessTurtle

Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort's rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.1:Dumbledore&James

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all the characters, objects, and wonderfully magical ideas in it do not belong to me in any form or fashion.

* * *

Author's Notes: This fanfiction has been lurking about in my laptop for quite a few years, and I wrote this before I read OotP (quite a while after the book itself came out, however). Thus, many things may be non-canon or AU. Not OotP, HBP, or DH compliant!

* * *

Late summer evenings always held a peculiar mystery to those who had the time to dwell on nothing, he thought. The remnants of the oppressive midday heat would fade to a floating, comforting warmth, with just a whistle of the chilly autumn winds to come. No clouds littered the sky tonight, the myriad of colors on the palette above smooth and churned to a flawless rainbow of gold and purple. The wavering flames of the sun had already slipped behind the silhouetted trees, its glistening red shining in the last hour before fading away. Already, a few stars twinkled weakly on the shadowed side of the canopy, blurred together with the ever-stretching shadows cast by the ancient buildings of Hogwarts.

Only one occupant disturbed the cool, tickling breeze. His once auburn hair, now white, shone as the strands fluttered over his robes. Spread over the grass, the favored light blue cloth seemed to take a shape of its own. Indeed, that frail shape was the only form that stood out from the rest of the flat grounds that surrounded it.

He was able to identify the approaching footsteps from behind before the person had reached him. Sssh…sshh…the grass slid along the worn shoes, flitting from side to side. The ground shivered slightly, little clouds of dust rapidly floating up before settling down again with a sigh. Although he had long since been considered one of the elderly, his senses had not lost their keen shine.

"Headmaster Dumbledore?" a voice ventured. It was slightly coarse, like fine shavings of wood, and inquiring. He was quickly able to pick out the somewhat high-pitched, musical voice. Smiling slightly to himself, he turned slowly to look behind him, patting the ground beside him with a weathered hand.

"Mr. Potter! How nice to see you. Please, do sit down."

The young boy stood there awkwardly for a moment, a limp chain of flowers dwindling in his left hand. His hazel eyes looked undecided behind his flying bangs and twinkling glasses, but after a moment, he joined his elder on the ground, folding his legs under him in that agile way that only children are able to do.

The wizard smoothed his palms over his knobby knees, then looked over his own spectacles at the student fiddling before him. Several pieces of grass had caught onto the boy's jumper, like a springy green on a woven backdrop of burnt maroon.

"What brings you out so late, James?"

"I—I…" he stammered for a few moments, flushing, "I had to get this, sir."

The Headmaster reached out, taking the chain of flowers. Little more than weeds, they were, but beautiful, nevertheless. Dainty white petals surrounded a tiny yellow center, strung together, end-to-end, by their long, graceful stems. A whimsical little past time.

"What wonderful craftsmanship! Did you make this?"

"Oh, no, sir. It's Lily's…Lily Evans. She left it outside near the lake, so I offered to go and get it."

"Very chivalrous." He recalled having seen the group of students together, under the shade of the trees. After a long first week of classes, many of the first years had ventured out and joined the upperclassmen, enjoying the opportunity to relax. The little flowers grew in bounty between the roots of the trees, and made an especially crowded carpet of white underneath the perilously waving branches of the Whomping Willow. The headmaster's eyes sparkled with amusement, and James seemed to have sensed it, for he started protesting.

"I didn't do anything to it, honestly! Lily wanted to get some flowers from under the Whomping Willow, and she didn't know it was going to hit her! I had to do something!"

Indeed, he had done something. Leaping up from his reclining position against the string of boulders on the shoreline of the lake, he'd sped over to the magical tree, tripping comically on one of its roots. The surprised girl had looked up from her bent position over the flowers to see James dangling, upside down, before her face. She'd giggled, pulling on his hair. At that moment, the tree uncurled its branch from the boy's ankle, and they'd both fallen in a heap in the little flowers. Lily had managed to grab a handful of the pretty flora before leaping up and dashing off, laughing. Luckily, none of them had been hurt.

To Albus Dumbledore, it was very obvious that James was smitten with Lily. Puppy love, he liked to call it. However, he mentioned none of it to the boy sitting next to him still trying to justify his actions. He seemed to have forgotten his shyness, eyes and glasses flashing as he demonstrated what had happened.

"And then I fell!" he blurted.

At that moment, his flailing fingers connected with a heavy glass jar by his hip. With a ping, the glass teetered, then fell over into the grass.

"Oh! What's this?" James peered into the jar curiously, holding his hand close to his body. The headmaster chuckled, cradling the jar. The metal top was missing, instead sealed with a scarlet and white checkered cloth and a rubber band. The cloth looked haggard, many holes frayed at the edges from their gaping positions at the top. Inside, several lights twinkled and glittered, flitting from glass wall to glass wall.

"These, my boy, are fireflies. Go on, give the jar a little shake."

Tentatively, the young boy reached out, nudging the jar a little so that it rolled over a clump of old summer grass. Disturbed slightly, the bugs flittered, shining their lights in little patterns as they did so. Then they continued ambling along the side of the jar, fluttering about indignantly as a wizened hand righted the jar.

"The little creatures are entertaining, aren't they? I like to collect them on summer evenings. Hogwarts always has plenty."

The reply was immediate. "Where?"

"Perhaps I could show you." The edges of the headmaster's blue eyes creased in laughter. "Here, help me up, I'm not as young as I once was."

Quickly, James scrambled up, dusting himself off in light, rapid movements before cradling the jar in his arm. With his other, he helped pull the headmaster up from his position on the grass. The older man took his time fluttering his robes about before accepting the jar again. Both headed off to the direction of the lake.

"I read about fireflies the other day." The voice was an eager chirp.

"Really? What did it say?" Headmaster Dumbledore loved to hear a student with a thirst to knowledge. Hardly a first year yet, and the young boy seemed to be collecting a multitude of knowledge already.

"It said that they were really good for the stuff in the middle of the night. Like…crawling into someone's bedroom and letting the bugs in. They'll wake up in the middle of the night and see lots of pretty lights, and then they'll wake up in the morning to see all of these black bugs crawling around!" he said enthusiastically.

Laughter bubbled up. Good for pranks, indeed. What a little delinquent.

"If I ever see lots of black bugs in anyone's bedroom, I'll know who did it!" the headmaster said, peering over his glasses in mock severity. James straightened his features in innocent protest.

"I wouldn't do it!"

In the brief silence, the long, dried grasses at the pond's edge sang as they slid past each other. The water lapped up in regular, soothing motions, and right where the froth formed against the grains of sand, many little lights pranced about.

"They're beautiful!" The awed whisper floated in the darkness.

"Would you like to help me catch a few more?"

Without a second thought, James was splashing at the water's edge, yelling and laughing. The lights whizzed about, frightened, and in his cupped hands, he managed to trap one as they flittered away. He peeked in, a delighted look blossoming across his face.

"I have one!"

Together, they carefully deposited the bug into the jar before sealing it again. Soon, it was lost to sight, its appearance exactly that of its friends inside. Their lights reflected into the darkening night, glowing warmly like tiny, mobile candle flames. Sensing the black cloak that had descended already, the headmaster turned back towards the castle, where a few orange flickers stood out in the shadowed windows. James followed at his elbow, the limp daisy chain entwined with his left fingers once more.

"Do you know what fireflies stand for, James?"

The boy shook his head, raven hair hidden in the night. Only the glint of the golden rims of his glasses gave any hint of motion, setting what remaining light there was left into a goodnight dance.

"Well, then that makes two of us," he sighed. It wasn't remorseful or disappointed; rather, it was like that of a tired old man. "However, I like to think of it in my own way."

"And what's that, sir?" James peered up curiously.

"They're little creatures, taken to fancy. Whenever it is dark, they're there, like bobbing little stars. You've heard people say to leave a candle in the window if they're waiting for someone to return home?"

"Yes, I think."

"Very good! It's very similar, the idea. They're a sign of welcome."

Hazel eyes peered into the jar once more, flicking the glass in a tiny little motion. The fireflies sprang to life, twirling and spinning in a thousand and one intricate motions and shapes. He nearly walked into the jar as the headmaster stopped before the door, his glasses clinking against the side. He put up one hand to steady the jar, the other to straighten his glasses.

"I never thought of it that way."

"You'll get the chance to learn and think as much as you like. But, meanwhile, leave school for the morrow. If I have guessed correctly, Filch will be here to give you curfew if you're not in your bed in half an hour!"

"Oh! Erm…thank you, sir, for the lesson."

The professor's eyes twinkled, and he gave the student before him a small, slow wink. "Of course. Welcome to Hogwarts, James."

The young boy was left standing in the doorway, watching the ambling shadow with light blue robes and long white hair disappear down the corridor. In one hand was his daisy chain, and in the other, the jar of fireflies, still glowing comfortingly in the dark.

* * *

Author's Notes: A short little ficlet with friendship but no romance. I hope you enjoyed it!

Next chapter: James welcomes Lily to his heart. This one will have a touch of romance, and their relationship is most definitely not OotP compliant!


	2. Lily&James

Title: Fireflies

Author: HelplessTurtle

Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort's rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.2:Lily&James

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all the characters, objects, and wonderfully magical ideas in it do not belong to me in any form or fashion.

* * *

Author's Notes: This fanfiction has been lurking about in my laptop for quite a few years, and I wrote this before I read OotP (quite a while after the book itself came out, however). Thus, many things may be non-canon or AU. Not OotP, HBP, or DH compliant!

* * *

Gusts of wind chased themselves and each other, upsetting the constant flakes of snow on their descent and buffeting the powdery white pieces before settling them gently on sparkling snowdrifts. Thick, fluffy clouds were strewn in patches across the starry midnight sky, playing hide-and-seek with the glowing full moon. Numbing cold seeped past smooth snow banks and into the small crack between a window and its pane. Every now and then, a larger gust would bring a snowflake with it, landing on the wooden sill before melting into the damp wood.

It was here in the common room that a fire still blazed after-hours. Flickering shadows danced with flitting light, waltzing across deep velvet reds, gliding beyond honeyed maples, spinning to a graceful halt on the bronze metals before disappearing into the rich weaves of tapestries. Yet the flames never stopped their waving and crackling, fighting to get their glimpse of the long, fiery strands cascading over the back of a chair faced away from them. Illuminated by its own inner glow, auburn and umber and golden nearly blended with the warmth of the reds and the golds of the room.

Muffled, light thumps interrupted the still atmosphere. Even the crackling fire seemed to still, peering in the direction of a winding staircase in anticipation. _Who is it?_ the winds seemed to whisper, clouding the windows a fragile mist. From the dark corner a figure appeared, the movements dampened by the spells of sleep. Ruffling his dark hair, he blinked a few times, revealing hazel eyes that reflected all of the light in the room. Brushing a few unruly bangs from his view with slender fingers, he stopped to study the scene before him.

A young woman, one arm cradling her head and the other stretched across the table strewn with books and parchments lay dozing. Her thin figure fit limply in the chair, her pale skin in deep contrast with the dark cherry of the wood. Flannel pajamas of white, littered with yellow stars and blue moons, softened her posture against the sharp edges of the desk corners. Upon closer inspection, however, she was neither as soft nor as comfortable as she appeared to be. Her eyelids, fringed with long auburn eyelashes, fluttered rapidly, sweeping her flushed cheeks like kisses bestowed by a wing of a disturbed butterfly. Thin fingers twitched, not unlike a kitten in doubt of retracting its claws. The pads of her fingertips continued smudging a stroke of ink, long dry. The movements were subtle, barely stirring the air around her, but after many long nights of hints and shifts, they couldn't be more apparent to her roommate.

He reached out, gently placing his hand on her tense, quivering shoulder. Shaking her lightly and eliciting no response, he knelt down, more firm with his hand. It only resulted in a small, abrupt cry, and his grip tightened as she began to thrash, her limbs sweeping parchments from the surface to flutter on the carpet. A particularly strong kick sent the chair crashing towards the edge of the table; he dove to catch her form, breaking her fall but unable to keep the sharp corner from cutting her cheek. The last thump of a text hung in the silence, then dissipated.

"Lily…Lily? Are you okay?" The young man struggled to push himself up, trying not to disturb the warm weight on top of him. She nodded, blushing a neat pink that flowered across her delicate features, before rolling off of him in haste. Both stood up, gathering as many parchments and books as they could. Two hands reached for the last item and froze.

"I'll get it."

She stood there shyly, accepting the load of papers and placing them upon the neat stack already there. He looked at her deeply for a moment, hazel melting into emerald melting into hazel. "Was it…a nightmare, again?" His voice was soft, inquiring.

She looked away, nodding. Her bright tresses fell across her face, shadowing her features in an unreadable veil. Leading her to a cozy couch nearby, the young man sat down, allowing her to cuddle up next to him. He watched the fire for a bit, enchanted by the flame's dancing, before returning his gaze to the girl beside him. He frowned at the blood on the side of her face, trickling in small rivulets from a rapidly coloring bruise.

"Does it hurt much?" He searched her eyes, carefully brushing away the crimson droplets with his thumb.

"No, not really. I'm sure it's nothing." She brought up her own hand, feeling the injury where the other's fingers had just left off, hovering several inches away. At the concerned look that crossed his features, she smiled. "James, really." He dropped his hand reluctantly.

"Why are you here? It's late—you should be in bed."

"I was studying and I fell asleep."

A light smile teased the edges of his mouth. "You study too much." She responded with a playful shove, responding quietly.

"That's more than I can say for you! You hardly even study!" The laughter died away as she creased her brow in contemplation. "Why did you come down to the common room?"

"Someone has to check on you."

"No," she protested, "I can take care of myself just fine!"

James didn't answer, giving her an evasive, sideways look. It had become habit for him to come down at the middle of the night and see her asleep at the desk, a book under her head or a quill held loosely in her fingers. More often than not, her sleep wasn't sweet. He tugged her hair, looking at her seriously.

"You're stressing yourself out, Lily. It's not healthy."

She huffed. "Says the one who always leaves a chocolate on my breakfast plate every morning."

"Chocolate is healthy; you're supposed to have a little each day!"

Her look was skeptical, and he had to grin, the edges of his mouth pulling into a wide grin. He drew his arm around her shoulders, letting her reach up and play with the top button of his pajama top. Soon, the threads would come apart and the button would fall off, and then he'd have to get somebody to sew the button on for him. Already, the threads were worn, leaving the plastic circle to teeter and totter at the hollow of his neck.

Both settled down to enjoy the companionable silence. James hadn't realized that he'd been dozing until Lily shifted beside him, pushing away one of the cushions. Something rolled to the floor with a hollow clunk, muffled by the soft rug underfoot.

"What's this?"

James cracked open one eye, refocusing through his glasses. Before him was a glass jar, a bit rough from wear, but intact. The sticky residue of old sticker labels splotched the otherwise smooth glass sides, heavy and thick. On top, there was no metal screw-on cover, but a rough white linen held to the neck of the jar with a green, silky ribbon. He held out his hand, taking the heavy weight and hefting it slightly.

"It's a glass jar."

She gave him an exasperated look, as if the hour was much too late to play such games. "I know that. What's it for?"

James pushed himself up from his partially reclined position against the arm of the sofa, studying the glass jar himself. Although un-faceted, it seemed to cast little crystals of lights around them. "What makes you think I know?"

"This." She wiggled her finger into the tag tied onto the top, holding it open. In black ink, several words were scrawled on in a free, loopy handwriting:

_From: JP_

_To: LE, with love_

He groaned, shutting his eyes before opening them again.

"It was supposed to be your Christmas present. You found it too early," he complained.

She spared no time looking abashed or embarrassed. Rather, her eyes shone with delight and happiness, mixed with a flicker of curiosity.

"You were going to give me an old jar?"

He snorted softly, amused. "It isn't any old jar. I was going to put something in it."

The look of curiosity intensified. There was little reason to hide the surprise now, he supposed. Placing the jar on two books lying crookedly on a nearby table with a dull clunk, he pushed himself off the sofa, then held out his hand to help Lily up. She allowed herself to be pulled to a standing position, following him to the window. She shivered a bit at the wind that washed in, experimentally poking at the crack that was letting in the cold. Her finger wandered up to the window, etching little spirals into the frosty layer that blurred the landscape outside. The sound of her fingernail against the glass was a quiet, high-pitched note, floating in the silence.

"Here." James was kneeling down, his head hidden behind one of the stuffier, plumper armchairs. All that was visible for a moment was his scarlet-and-white pinstriped back before he emerged with a handful of something in his palm. He hid it from her, dancing around her outreached hands, until he managed to deposit the objects into the glass jar, with Lily bobbing at his shoulder. The little objects were smooth and black, like volcanic glass, tiny particles of them.

"What—"

"Sssh. Watch." He drew the linen top back on, fitting the ribbon back in place. From his back pocket he pulled out a slim piece of wood, slightly curved and pointed at one end. It hummed and vibrated with magic, merrily alive. The tip of his wand clinked against the interior of the jar. "Tighten the ribbon when I say so."

He murmured something under his breath. "Now!"

As Lily stared at the small spectacle before her, he deftly tied the ribbon into a floppy bow. Then he stood back, joining her a few feet away.

"It's so pretty!"

Inside the jar, the lights sparked and jumped, many little golden and white lights bouncing about. Against the shadowed backdrop of the staircase, the lights shone brightly, weaving patterns that lasted for a few seconds before disappearing into the envelope of darkness. Not wanting to ruin the magic of the moment, James turned his mouth to Lily's ear, whispering.

"They're my enchanted fireflies. Headmaster Dumbledore once told me something about them."

Lily turned her head slightly, watching him. "What did he tell you?"

"He said they were a sign of welcome. Like when people leave candles in their windows for travelers. The light is comforting, isn't it?"

"Yes," she murmured, turning her attention back to the little lights. They gave a few last spits of fire and sparks, then died out. A fine black powder coated the bottom rim, hardly visible in the shadows. He reached over, shaking the jar lightly as he inspected the remains. They made a slight tinkling noise as they sifted, still holding a slight glitter.

"They're done. I can't get them to last longer than a minute."

"It's okay. That was a very beautiful minute." She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. Her voice was slightly muffled, and he could feel her warm breath on his skin. "Thank you."

In return, he wrapped his own arms around her, his fingers entwined in her hair. They stayed like that for a moment, two figures preserved in a rare moment in time.

"What was the welcome for?"

"Hmm?" He was startled at the question.

"You said that Headmaster Dumbledore told you fireflies were a symbol of welcome. What were you welcoming?"

"Nothing," he muttered, suddenly awkward. His arms dropped and he pulled away, his movements like that of a wooden puppet. Red washed his face as he looked down at the edge of a rug, scuffing it with his toes.

"I don't believe you," she persisted.

He gave her a floppy smile, giving in. "You're so stubborn," he teased.

She stepped closer to him, her face almost touching his. For a second, her nose brushed his chin, a strand of her fiery hair swept across his eyebrow. "You haven't told me yet."

For a lone moment, all that could be heard was the crackling of the flames and the soft exhaling of their breaths. Then, in a voice so soft, it almost couldn't be heard, yet so clear it rang like the peals of a church bell:

"Welcome, Lily. Welcome to my heart."

* * *

Author's Notes: A very sweet tidbit, and very dear to my heart, too! The imagery and cozy atmosphere make this one of my favorite chapters. I hope you enjoyed it!

The next chapter will feature Lily welcoming her son Harry to the wizarding world, and bringing him back home.


	3. Lily&Harry

Title: Fireflies

Author: HelplessTurtle

Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort's rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.3: Harry&Lily, family

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all the characters, objects, and wonderfully magical ideas in it do not belong to me in any form or fashion.

* * *

Author's Notes: This fanfiction has been lurking about in my laptop for quite a few years, and I wrote this before I read OotP (quite a while after the book itself came out, however). Thus, many things may be non-canon or AU. Not OotP, HBP, or DH compliant!

* * *

The air was stale and ghastly, filled with a chill that penetrated even the thickest stone walls. Transparent cobwebs, woven into intricate geometric designs, hung in every corner and dusted every surface, like light drifts of a powdery white waiting to be swept away. The still darkness was penetrated by a slight pearly glow from the windows above, moonlight filtering through the swirling dust motes to take the form of thin, long beams.

To most, the chamber looked as if it had been left uninhabited for decades. It was large, and the slightest whisper sent a resounding echo dancing in a whirlwind of noise before settling down again. Where the open space yawned, nothing stood but a single mirror, shining with its own inner glow. Its surface reflected with a disorienting glaze, and the pillars that surrounded it seemed more realistic in that glassy image than they did in real life.

It was behind one of these pillars that a young boy peeked, his brilliant green eyes darting back and forth before landing on the silver object before him. He squinted past the orange glow of the gently wavering lantern held up beside him like one accustomed to wearing glasses but having to cope without their help. Then, his bare feet pattered lightly and rapidly along the stone floor, upsetting the fine layer of dust and webs that floated up with a cacophony of pitter-pattering echoes, like a long forgotten collection of drums. He slid into a sitting position before the mirror, setting down his light beside him with a clink.

With one chin resting on his fist, he watched his image, unblinkingly. A childish, thin face stared back at him, a shock of unruly raven hair melding together with the darkness behind him, hiding a thin, lightning shaped scar. The maroon jumper that he had pulled over his lanky form leered back at him, crooked and careless. His brow furrowed a bit and his gaze became pensive, searching for something else.

There! Something seemed to rustle from inside the mirror, and the image shimmered, as if a fairy had danced upon its surface before winking back into the darkness. Colors seemed to gather from the gray stones in the background, becoming reds and greens to reveal a woman staring back at him.

"Harry." The voice floated past, barely lingering long enough to be heard.

"Mum!" The reply was immediate and bright, small enough to be swallowed by the room surrounding the figure and the magical mirror. "You're here!"

"And so are you. Haven't I told you before that you should be in bed?" The voice was soft and caressing, but held a slight note of disapproval.

"Yes, mum," he stretched out his voice, "but I wanted to see you!"

"It's not safe. How are you not frightened by this dark place?" The figure seemed to lean out of the mirror, peering curiously around the edges to take in the surroundings. It shuddered, and the young boy laughed, a tinkling that seemed to brighten the room.

"Of course I'm not frightened! Don't worry, if you're scared, I'll protect you!"

Both of their laughs mingled, tagging each other playfully before sweeping up to echo against the ceiling.

"Oh, I trust you, Harry. My brave little knight!"

The quiet settled down on them again, and the brightness that had been there previously faded once again into the shadows. The boy, sitting cross-legged on the floor, shivered a bit, then shifted to a more comfortable position on the stones.

"How was quidditch today?" asked the feminine voice in the mirror, slipping past the silence.

"It was great!" The light seemed to glow in the chamber again, a steady gold that did not waver. "It was a little windy, but it made me feel like I was flying faster than I usually do. I wish you could see me!" he said enthusiastically.

"You have your friends and teammates to cheer you on," she reminded him, eyes sparkling with warmth. Although the statement was meant to be comforting, the boy frowned a little, some of the brightness in his eyes dwindling.

"I wish my friends could play quidditch."

The reply was quizzical. "What do you mean by that?"

His sigh brushed past the cobwebs and pillars before returning to him. "All of the guys on the quidditch team are…I dunno. Distant, I suppose. I'm not their age; I'm just a first year. It's like I still have to prove myself to them. Oliver said they were like my family, but they're nothing like you and dad. Not even anything like Ron and Hermione!"

His frustrated shout dwindled, swallowed by the silence. The emotions, however, still raged from wall to wall, never disappearing.

"Harry, come here. I want to show you something." The hand in the mirror beckoned him nearer, and curious, he inched forward, dragging the lantern along with him. The metal base screeched against the stones, a startling noise.

"Mum?"

"Just a moment, Harry," she replied with motherly patience. Her auburn hair, tinged with the sienna of an aged photograph, fell over her face as she searched for something behind her. Shapes took form around her, like many boxes and trunks of treasures and heirlooms. Brocades of silk tumbled out with strung beads, like waterfalls of color. Brassy metals glittered, like polished metallic coins. Faceted gems glittered and twinkled, little handfuls of the rainbow. Finally, she emerged from the boxes of riches, and they faded away, unimportant. Carefully tucking her hair behind her ears, she held out a glass jar. The boy squinted at it.

"Harry! You don't have your glasses!"

He smiled sheepishly at her, protesting. "I'm supposed to be asleep! I don't sleep with my glasses on!"

"Asleep you should be." She bestowed upon him a forgiving smile, nonetheless, and held out the glass jar for closer scrutiny. Piles of lace with many tiny patterns cut into them were layered among the top of the container, secured on by a string of round, robust pearls. The glass itself was thin and fragile, sitting delicately upon her palm. Three little lights, like diamonds, waltzed energetically inside, making a high pinging noise every time one of them struck the sides, spinning a little before engaging in the dance again.

"It's wonderful!" he exclaimed, his nose nearly pressed against the mirror itself as he strove for a closer look. The little lights floated closer to him, almost as if they were as curious as he was. Then, in a sudden movement, they were dancing again, their little noises as they collided with the sides of the glass jar and themselves like high-pitched giggles.

"What are they?"

With a light rustle, she sat down before him, balancing the jar of lights in her hand. "Magical fireflies, enchanted by powerful magic. Your father once gave me a gift like this, granted that it wasn't quite so pretty nor as long-lasting." A reminiscent smile hovered over her lips as she watched her son, his eyes taking in the little lights. He was a lot like his father. "He told me that fireflies meant something. Can you guess what it is?"

Harry bit his lip, studying the magical bugs. He appeared to be in deep thought for several moments, and then a scowl flowered upon his face when he realized that the three glows wouldn't tell him their secret. His mother smiled.

"They're a sign of welcome. Long ago, when mothers and fathers waited for their children to return home from a long journey, they left lights in their windows, always burning. That way, if they decided to come home again, they would feel warm and comforted, and know someone was waiting for them."

"Could I leave a candle in my window every night for you and dad?"

"Oh, that would take a lot of candles, to leave them burning every night. You should save your money for candy and toys; that's what your dad would've done, at least."

"But I've got tons and tons of galleons!"

"There's little need, Harry." She curbed his insistence with a small smile. "Your heart shines brightly enough for a hundred candles."

"Really?"

"Really." The lights played across their faces for a moment, illuminating them in a warm sphere of love for one another.

"Each of these fireflies represents a person. I think you know who."

"Me, you, and dad!"

"Dad, you, and me," she corrected gently. Placing the jar on the ground beside her, she pushed herself off the ground. Then, she reached her hand out to the boy before her. He hesitated before placing his hand on the glass, his small hand in hers, allowing himself to be helped off the ground. It was a strange feeling, to have somebody in a different universe be able to do such a thing.

"Are you going, mum?"

She nodded slightly. "You need your sleep; you can't be up all night talking or you'll fall asleep in class!"

He looked crestfallen. "Can I see you and dad tomorrow?"

"Perhaps. But for now, it's time for sleep!"

"Yes, mum. I love you."

"I love you too. Good-night, Harry."

"Good-night, mum."

Slowly, the colors swirled and faded until, once again, all that was left were the gray stones and the reflection of a young boy staring at himself. However, the spot where the lantern once stood beside him was now occupied by a dainty glass jar, three little fireflies buzzing contentedly inside. If one listened closely, they could hear voices whispering, like a small family chorus.

Welcome home.

* * *

Author's Notes: I hope, once again, that you enjoyed this chapter! For those of you who may not have guessed, the mirror is the Mirror of Erised, if not slightly romanticized.

The next chapter consists of Harry and Tom Riddle, a little bit different from the previous chapters!


	4. Harry&TomRiddle

Title: Fireflies

Author: HelplessTurtle

Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort's rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.4:Harry&TomRiddle

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all the characters, objects, and wonderfully magical ideas in it do not belong to me in any form or fashion.

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Author's Notes: This is the first chapter that I've written recently. This idea of a floating death-world was lurking in the recesses of my mind before JKR used it in DH, and I've decided that it's all the more reason to use this dreamscape. Hopefully the writing style hasn't deviated!

* * *

As far as the eye could see, heavy clouds of mist rolled across the landscape. They were not gray and heavy with rain, but a pearly, luminescent white, filled with peace and light. The sun had not yet risen, and it was at that moment that the sky was tinged a rosy pink, the golden rays spreading out their warmth across everything they could touch. The resulting golden lining was brilliant and beautiful.

Like a puff, a playful breeze whisked by, chasing after the scuttling clouds. They puffed like sails, dispersing just enough to make out a young man stretched out on the grass.

His features were serene, closed as if in a deep, dreamless sleep. His skin was tan in the sun's early morning glow, and the features were sharpened by the resulting play of light and shadow. Dark eyelashes, long and curved, brushed over sloping cheekbones, creased the slightest, as if he had frowned too many times over the years. His nose was small but sharp, and from one nostril the slightest trickle of blood glistened ruby red. His lips were parted, allowing the faint breath to enter then escape.

One eye seemed to twitch, and gradually, the eyebrows were drawn into a squint of confusion. He cracked his eyes open, revealing brilliant emerald green eyes that were immediately alert and wary. Quickly, he pushed himself up on his elbow, taking in the unfamiliar but strangely comforting surroundings.

He took a moment to inspect himself. His slacks were barely recognizable, frayed and scraped and worn and stained by the mad scramble that is present in a battle. The jumper, small enough to reveal his bony wrists and his slim midriff when he moved, looked to be unraveling, the curly yarn peeling away from a large, gaping tear. One of his shoes was missing, the remaining shoelace threatening to fall apart from its bow. The one sock that could be seen was a pristine white, except for a single grass stain, and the hole at his toe that revealed the pale skin underneath. He wiggled his foot experimentally in the sunshine.

Gingerly, he lifted one hand to feel his face. He let his fingers roam over the familiar contours, as if to reassure himself that nothing was missing, or that he was in fact wearing his own face, not someone else's. He paused suddenly, peeling away his fingers. The trail of blood had left a dark smear on his palm, and he stared at it for a moment with fascination. The look quickly became one of mortification, and he gingerly swiped his hand on the carpet of grass he was still reclining on, brushing away the drying red liquid. The stains that he had painted were a startling contrast of green and red.

As if embarrassed by his actions, he scrambled up to a sitting position; eyes darting about, looking as if he wanted to make certain that no one had seen him. His sight fluttered restlessly about until it snagged on a form a short distance away. The green eyes widened a bit, then narrowed. In a deft gesture, as if by habit, he moved up to push an imaginary pair of glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. He paused when he realized that the spectacles were not there in the first place, and frowned momentarily. How could he be seeing so clearly without them?

He had no further chance to dwell on his healed eyesight, for the form had approached him and now stood before him. He raised his eyes to inspect the figure. A thick head of glossy black hair, sharp eyes, a boyish face, a lanky form that looked casual even in this dreamscape.

"Tom Riddle," the young man on the grass said bluntly.

Tom's eyes widened in surprise, then uncertainty. He straightened from his relaxed pose, suddenly looking stiff, as if someone was pulling strings that held his limbs upright.

"Do…I know you?"

The other young man blinked. In a decisive movement, he uncurled into a standing position, flourishing his hand out in a handshake gesture. "Hi. My name's Harry. Harry Potter."

Tom showed no recognition, instead lightening visibly in relief. "Nice to meet you, Harry. It's great to finally find someone in this forsaken place. You wouldn't happen to know where we are, would you?"

Harry looked doubtful for a moment, as if it were improbable that Tom Riddle didn't know where they were, or as if telling him what he knew would not be sensible in this situation. He said nothing, lips pursed in a fierce determination to give nothing away. Tom seemed to catch the hostility, then raised up his arms and let out a boisterous, disarming laugh.

"What, mate?"

Harry shook his head, as if to dismiss the notions flitting about in his mind. "Let's move around a bit. See what we can find."

The two of them shuffled side by side, exchanging curious glances. Neither made a move to break the silence that hung heavy over them. They continued for several long, stretched moments, still seeing nothing ahead of them but the rolling grassland and the clouds sweeping past.

"How'd you get here?" Harry blurted out. Realizing that he'd just said that out loud, he listened to his voice echo, bouncing off of the clouds before fading into nothing. His cheeks were tinged with the smallest hint of pink.

"I…don't know." Tom looked uncomfortable with making that confession, and hurried on. "I barely remember what happened before I woke up here. Pain, darkness…" he shrugged.

"I'm in the same boat. Pain and darkness, too, and lots of noise. You don't suppose we're dead, do you?"

They both looked startled at the words, the truth and burden that might lie behind them. They slowed to a halt, fidgeting, staring pointedly at anything but each other. In Harry's eyes, there was a light of hope, flickering with a shadow of guilt. In Tom's, however, there was only fear and shock.

"I've always been scared of dying." The words came out as a whisper, floating around them in a soft, haunting trail. "Drowning in a puddle of stars, the surface disappearing, and all those you've always trusted with your life leering down at you like you're a little puppet that they've flushed away and away…what have I done?"

Harry leaned over, urgency propelling his actions, and shook Tom's shoulders rigorously, as if to make the evil spirit clinging to Tom's clothes let go. "Tom! Tom!"

"Harry…tell me that I'm not a bad person."

The green eyes stared back, blank. His emotions struggled, a boiling, churning pot of memories bubbling over. Anger at the death of his parents, the image of a light the same color as his mum's eyes flashing past and leaving a dark trail behind from the blinding brightness…the pale faces of his friends, blanching and gray as a statue frozen in time…the pale face before him now, eyes rolling in fright, breath coming in short gasps of desperation…

"No, Tom, you're not a bad person," he whispered back fiercely, his voice thick with determination. _Voldemort is_. The thought came to his mind unbidden, like a knife slicing through the thick fog that had been swirling about and clouding his judgement, and it was then that he realized that this was true. Tom Riddle and Voldemort were not the same—one would forever be lost as a small, lonely boy who left his place in the world, and the other would be an eternal curse as a leering, burning brand in the minds of all for years to come.

Simultaneously, as if in realization, the two of them straightened up to look around them, a choreographed, synchronized movement. The mist was still there, but it was no longer filled a vivacious life. Instead, it weighed pregnant in the air, brushing the tips of the trembling grass. The sky became that of a mournful sunset, with ribbons of red burning past the blues, purples, and grays. The air was warm, and it ruffled the clothes of the two young men, enveloping them, almost hugging them before moving past.

Then, the first raindrops began to fall. They were warm, refreshing, and suddenly, the land around them was no longer the realm of the dead. In this new, strange light, the landscape had become alive, everything moving and talking and singing until the lifeless film that had covered the land had been shaken away, disappearing into the soil.

"Tom, look!"

Harry's shout carried through the downpour, excited and expectant. Tom swiveled on his feet, taking in the new atmosphere, absorbing this new exultant life through his skin as if it was thirsty from years out in a desert of bones. He squinted, following the direction of his new friend's arm.

"Lights?"

"No, fireflies!"

With a whoop, Harry grabbed a fistful of Tom's shirt and tugged him along, dragging the astounded young man into the middle of the dancing, glittering, friendly lights. The little bugs seemed immediately attracted to the two new forms, and they landed gently on their skin, pulsing soothingly until the two boys glowed.

"Wow," Tom breathed. One fluttered from the side of his nose, and his arm snaked out quickly, catching the insect in his fingers. The other fireflies flitted about for a moment before coming to rest again. Gently, he raised his hand to his eye and peered between his thumb and forefinger. The tiny spark was steady and bright. "Why do you think they're here?"

Harry watched one on the bridge of his nose, cross-eyed, as he ruminated on the unexpected question. With a whir of its wings, the light spiraled up into the evening air, until it was lost in the cloud of shimmering, dancing lights.

"I…don't know. This place is strange. But I do have a hunch." He watched his unexpected acquaintance from the corner of his eye.

"Well? Out with it!"

"My mum once told me that fireflies are a symbol of welcome. She said that mums and dads used to leave candles in their windows to guide their kids home if they were away, to welcome them home if mum and dad happened to be sleeping or something and weren't there with a light."

"I wish I knew your mum. Do you think someone sent them to welcome us?" Tom gave an experimental spin, and as his robes blossomed out, the fireflies fluttered up in a dizzying pattern, enchanting and wonderful. His peals of laughter rang across the landscape.

"No, I don't think so." Harry smiled quietly. "I think that the fireflies came here by themselves. I have a feeling they know when they're needed, don't you?"

Tom considered them, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I don't remember learning about these in Care of Magical Creatures. But I think they must have magic. Funny how I never thought of that before." He shook his head, as if to clear his head, then flashed Harry another one of his disarming smiles. "Come on, let's move on before it gets dark. I don't want to get lost in the rain."

"Wait." Harry scrambled across the slick grass, shaking off the last fireflies from his own clothes. "Do you happen to have a glass jar or something?"

Tom looked quizzical, but reached into his robe pocket anyway, pulling an object out. The glittered in the last light of the setting sun, two pieces of shining glass set into two round, burnished metal frames. Innocently, they sat in his hands.

"I have this. I found them next to me when—"

"My glasses!" Reverently, Harry reached forward for them, then peered through the lenses. The view looked distorted and fuzzy through the damaged glass. When he lowered them, he realized that in this world, he could see perfectly without them. "Never mind, I don't need them anyway."

With nimble, dexterous fingers, he pulled back the metal that snaked around the rims, letting the tiny screws fall to his feet. When he had separated the two lenses, he breathed warm air on them and rubbed them, as if to clean them of dirt. They curved smoothly.

"Here, Tom, hold this." Shoving the metal at the bewildered young man, Harry dashed back to the cloud of fireflies. Swiping his hand twice, he felt one of the little bugs tickling his palm. "Gotcha!"

Tom shook his head admiringly. "You should be a Seeker." Harry only grinned.

Taking the two lenses, Harry gently nudged the bug onto one of the pieces of glass. The firefly explored the smooth surface, but did not fly away. Carefully, he placed the second piece on top, like a little dome. The firefly fit perfectly inside, pulsing contentedly. He held out the little object.

"Help me tie this up."

Tom made quick work of the metal, straightening the beaten rims before looping them tightly around the two lenses. The two of them bent over the tiny display case for a moment, and then Tom turned to look at Harry once more, cradling the firefly and its case in his palm.

"What's this for?"

There was a brief moment of silence.

"You said you were scared of death, of people leaving you behind, of being a bad person. You don't need to be frightened, Tom. There will always be those people who forget you, who don't like you, but there will always be the people that remember you and like you, too. I'm glad that I met you, and that I'm your friend. You're a good person, a wonderful person, and there will never be another person like you. People might change, and years from now, if you see me again, I might not even recognize you. But you'll still be you. I have a feeling that your future self will be the kind of person to make history, but if I meet you in the future, the Tom I'm seeing now won't be replaced by the Tom of the future. Even if I never see you again, I'll never forget you."

Harry's brilliant smile lit up the space around them as the sun's last rays flickered into the distance.

"Welcome to my memories, Tom Riddle."

* * *

Author's Notes: I rewrote the last few paragraphs so many times trying to get my message across; unfortunately, I have a feeling that what I'm trying to say can't be expressed in English. At the very end, Harry is saying, in essence, that he won't just remember the evil, sadistic Voldemort, but the innocent, human Tom, too. His lasting impression is of Tom Riddle, the boy before the man.

The background to the story should probably be made clear. This is placed just after the Final Battle. Similarly to DH, Harry is transported to a kind of dream world. Tom has been there since Tom Marvolo Riddle became Voldemort, as if his evil side cast away the good side and banished it. Time in the dream world does not pass quite the same as it does in reality, so while Tom has been there for decades, it seems like he has only arrived. This is why Tom does not know Harry, and why Harry reacts the way he does when he first meets Tom, as well as why Harry tells Tom, "I have a feeling that your future self will be the kind of person to make history."

I hope you enjoyed it! The next chapter has a Tom Riddle and Voldemort confrontation—one self versus the other.


	5. TomRiddle&Voldemort

Title: Fireflies

Author: HelplessTurtle

Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort's rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.5:Voldemort&TomRiddle

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all the characters, objects, and wonderfully magical ideas in it do not belong to me in any form or fashion.

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Author's Notes: This chapter deviates slightly from the warm and fluffy mood of the other chapters, but it still has a hearty meaning to it. Besides, what story is complete without a little evil? I was viewing Tom Riddle in a heroic way when I wrote this, so I hope he doesn't seem like a wimpy one to your standards! Read and enjoy!

* * *

As far as the eye could see, the scene was the perfect picture of a stormy, boiling landscape. The sky was oppressively dark, pressing on the eyeballs as if threatening to engulf them in its greedy, seeking, prying fingertips. Without notice, a brilliant flash would cut through, seemingly slashing through one's sight and leaving one in a brief burst of pain and light. Then, all that would be left would be that sparkling, hazy residue in the darkness, drifting across the vision, and as it disappeared, the dark seemed all the more ominous and persistent. From a distance, a second bolt of light descended from the sky in a raw, jagged edge, sending it's light across the clouds that could now be seen to reveal the angry, rumbling masses swirling above.

The waters churning in the sea were no less dominant, rushing back and forth as if repeatedly attacking an unseen adversary. The waves assailed the air, climbing up and up and up. For one brief, beautiful moment, they almost seemed to suspend in time. Then, they would crash upon the back of the wave in front of it, sending a spectacular spray and leaving behind a sizzling froth that never stopped hissing.

Despite the onslaught of piercing rain that slashed through the landscape, all of these things were easily noticeable, overwhelming the senses in a cacophony of sounds and light and feeling until everything seemed to become one assailant, a monster without mercy. A rumble, loud and long, rolled through the landscape and enveloped it, the vibrations almost tearing the earth apart. Suddenly, a light flashed again, harsh and defined, and the sound echoed away. However, the light illuminated one peculiar figure, huddled on a rock, continuously battered by the winds and spray and rain.

The brilliant green he wore stood out in a stark contrast to the grays and blacks and murky colors that surrounded him. His robe had blown into tatters and continued fluttering in the wind like a black blanket that could no longer provide comfort. Squinting, the figure peered upwards, his eyes glittering like twin slits. In the next moment, his eyes widened in fear and surprise.

Descending from the sky was a frightening form, looking more creature than human. A series of lightning bolts illuminated the sky, and as he flew closer and closer, it was possible to make out his features. His arms were spread out in a grandiose manner; the long black sleeves were stretched out in the wind like sails or wings. His fingers were curled into claws, seeming to grasp an invisible power that only he knew. He held his body ramrod straight, chest open to make him look bigger than life. The look on his face, that reptilian face with only nostrils and no nose, a slit but no mouth, the twin holes that were eyes full of maniacal gleam, only added to the sense that he had a power no one else could possibly know.

Suddenly, he had landed beside the huddled young man on the rock, the whoosh of air sending the waves and spray swirling in opposite directions. Where his lips should have been, his mouth curled into a humorless smile.

"Tom Riddle," he hissed slowly, pronouncing every syllable with a clarity that made the young man cower even lower. "Tom Marvolo Riddle! Look…at me!"

The young man reluctantly pulled his chin up, his gaze wavering slightly but landing squarely to meet the other's eyes. A hard, fierce determination began to creep over his features, like a fragile armor that reshaped his fear.

"Tom…do you know who I am?"

"No!" The young man's answer was certain and defiant, piercing through the churning atmosphere before being whisked away by a cackling gust.

If anything, the man only smiled more, mockingly. "Oh, but my boy, I'm certain you do. How many times have you looked in the mirror and seen this horror gazing back at you, so haunted, so evil? How many times have you blinked, only to see yourself again, but knowing that the true one inside is not the handsome boy you want to see? I only need to remind you…"

Suddenly, the boy lurched up, cradling something in the crook of his right arm while he pointed rigidly with his left. He swayed dangerously.

"You don't know who I am!"

The other figure chuckled, drawing one long, pale, clawed finger in an elegant motion and placing it under the boy's chin. He turned the face this way and that, as if admiring an object before him.

"Tom, Tom! It is _you_ who do not know who _I_ am. Not truly so, at least. Tell me, have you ever truly looked at your name?"

Tom pulled back, repulsed. His gaze did not leave, however, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"

"You must have noticed, one of those days when you were trapped in your History of Magic class, or Charms. Rearrange the letters, and you find something strange. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord…Voldemort." Something ugly drew into his face, then passed, leaving behind that mask of fake humor. "So who am I? I am he. I am you…when you've grown out of your poor naivete and realized the true power you can wield. I am Lord Voldemort!"

His voice boomed, drowning out even the pounding waves and the ground-shaking thunder. Tom flinched, but his face contorted in anger. He inched forward.

"You're lying! I will never be you! As long as I can fight, I will fight, and I will never back down and let myself become that sick, deranged bastard that is you! Even if that means that I must die, I will bring you down with me!"

A slow, dry chuckle grew out of the silence. Lord Voldemort shook his head. His hand crept down his thigh, drawing out a long, thin wand.

"But that is where you are wrong, Tom Riddle. I have already taken over, and banished you from your own body. It has been many years, many years, and you will never be able to match the magic I now hold. You are master of your body no longer! Bow to me, boy!"

"NO!"

"I said bow, and you _will_ bow! You will grovel at my feet like the pathetic boy you are!"

In a flurry, a second wand appeared, the mirror image of the first. A bright blue light crackled, flashing straight towards Lord Voldemort. However, just before it brushed Voldemort's chest, it slammed into a glowing shield, and the light spread before dissipating. When he reappeared, his wand was at the ready. He snarled.

"Do you want to fight? You've picked the wrong monster to duel with!"

In the next moment, everything was a flurry of colors and lights, dangerous lights that could wound and kill with the slightest contact. Blinding yellows crashed into blinding, fiery oranges, sending up golden sparks. Silver forms wrapped around brilliant purple flashes, swirling into a mass of writhing colors before flattening into thin air. Angry reds hurled themselves into pulsing greens, spreading into a sheet of deadly magic. Everywhere, these frighteningly beautiful curses danced, forming a complicated pattern that disappeared before it even existed.

"Enough!" the boy screamed. Suddenly, a golden stream shot forth, devouring all of the other lights in its beam. It struck the surprised man in the chest, engulfing him in flames. For a moment, it was dark, no more light flashing in the sky. The boy prowled forward, eyes blazing, as he addressed the man writhing in the golden tongues of fire in a low, steady voice.

"I will never become you, Voldemort. I may have seen your horrific face leering at me in my nightmares, plaguing me every night in my sleep, but you don't scare me. Why? Because you can't control me. I can fight you. If I don't have the strength, I can find it—in my friends, in those who care about me, in those who will never forget me just because you're there. You won't replace Tom Riddle, you piece of slime! You'll never be worth enough to do it!

"You said that you took over me, but that is not the truth. You killed me and became yourself in the process. I died trying to save myself, and I failed. I did not become the man I wanted to be. But I did not become the man I never wanted to be, either. I didn't become a murderer, a torturer, or a maniac who did not know his own bounds. I didn't become _you_. I know who I am, and you can never convince me otherwise.

"Let me show you something, Voldemort."

Slowly, he straightened out the arm that had been cradling something close to his chest. As he brought it closer to the flames, the object became clearly evident.

His fingers were wrapped around a heavy glass jar, the walls thick and marred with scratches and smudges. The surfaces were uneven and lumpy as if made by an amateur, mistakes and deformities evident. It was topped by a rugged cork, crumbling at the edges and threatening to fall apart if it where to be removed from the jar's neck. Inside, a swarm of fireflies buzzed, disturbed by the golden light.

"A jar?" Voldemort sneered. "Are you going to trap me in it for all eternity?"

Tom shook his head, and for the first time, a peaceful, serene smile graced his face. Momentarily, it was as if the wind had died down, and the rain and waves had stopped their relentless attack.

"They're fireflies," he said softly. "Small, harmless, innocent bugs that have the power of light."

The once-raging elements settled, as if honoring the silence and waiting for the next words to be uttered. Even the fireflies seemed expectant, their movements calming into a lazy swirl. His voice was carried by the lightest carpet of wind.

"I'll bet that you've never thought about them before, never even bothered to give them half a thought. But they're magical, too, and you'd never have their magic. They're…special. Did you know that they mean welcome?"

"Really?" Voldemort asked, disinterested. The wind fluttered by, as if to shush him, but Tom continued on as if he had not been interrupted.

"A boy named Harry Potter told me." The man jerked once against the flames, but Tom did not seem to notice his sudden distress. "He said that fireflies and their glowing light were a symbol of welcome, because people used to leave lights in their windows to welcome lost ones home. I think from far away, the twinkling light must have looked a lot like fireflies. Their light must have been comforting, drawing a traveler away from the darkness.

"I wish someone had been there to welcome me home. I had to wait a long time, but someone did, eventually. He became my friend, and he will always remember me, just as I will always remember him. And he gave me these fireflies, too."

He looked up, the light of the fireflies reflected in his eyes like a soft, pale yellow. "But I don't think I need them anymore. They've told me their message. I think that they've chosen you."

The man, now angry, opened his mouth to speak, but a silencing charm quickly made his efforts futile. Tom smiled with determination.

"I'm done. If you have anything to do, you can do it now. Nothing you do will hurt me anymore. I'm going to go, and I'm off to the Realm of the Dead. I don't belong here. The moment I leave, so will that fire, and you're free. But you'll never return to the Land of the Living. Who knows? Maybe I'll see you again, in a place where you won't ever be able to torture anyone anymore.

"Welcome to defeat."

In a flash of gold, the boy disappeared, and the golden flames with him. Lord Voldemort was left staring at the jar lying innocently where the boy had just stood, the fireflies never once stopping in their calm, collected flight.

* * *

Author's Notes: This chapter was very difficult to begin, and very difficult to end, too. It didn't quite come out like I wanted, but it's not the worst I've ever done, I suppose.

Hopefully, the next chapter, also the last, will be better. I'll be gone for a week to go visit colleges in Southern California, but I'm hoping that my update won't take too long. Thank you for reading!


	6. Voldemort&Dumbledore

Title: Fireflies

Author: HelplessTurtle

Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort's rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.5:Dumbledore&Voldemort

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all the characters, objects, and wonderfully magical ideas in it do not belong to me in any form or fashion.

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Author's Notes: This fanfiction has been lurking about in my laptop for quite a few years, and I began writing this before I read OotP (quite a while after the book itself came out, however). Thus, many things may be non-canon or AU. Not OotP, HBP, or DH compliant!

* * *

Late summer evenings always held a peculiar mystery to those who had the time to dwell on nothing, he thought. The remnants of the oppressive midday heat would fade to a floating, comforting warmth, with just a whistle of the chilly autumn winds to come. No clouds littered the sky tonight, the myriad of colors on the palette above smooth and churned to a flawless rainbow of gold and purple. The wavering flames of the sun had already slipped behind the silhouetted trees, its glistening red shining in the last hour before fading away. Already, a few stars twinkled weakly on the shadowed side of the canopy, blurred together with the ever-stretching shadows cast by the ancient stones that sat upon the earth.

Only one occupant disturbed the cool, tickling breeze. His once auburn hair, now white, shone as the strands fluttered over his robes. Spread over the grass, the favored light blue cloth seemed to take a shape of its own. Indeed, that frail shape was the only form that stood out from the rest of the flat grounds that surrounded it.

He was able to identify the approaching footsteps from behind before the person had reached him. Sssh…sshh…the grass slid along worn feet, flitting from side to side. The ground shivered slightly, little clouds of dust rapidly floating up before settling down again with a sigh. Although he had long since been considered one of the elderly, his senses had not lost their keen shine.

"Albus Dumbledore?" a voice snarled. It was shrill, the octave high and nasally, but still resonant, as if accustomed to commanding others with words not to be disobeyed. However, this was not the reason that Hogwart's headmaster turned around to acknowledge the newcomer.

"Tom Riddle," he said genially, "What a surprise to see you. Come, sit." He patted the seat beside him in the grass, smoothing the blades under his weathered fingertips.

"I…" the figure growled, "am not Tom Riddle! And I will sit when I want, not before, not after, and certainly not at your beckoning!"

Headmaster Dumbledore seemed to contemplate the man before him, the corners of his eyes creasing thoughtfully, then in amusement. "No need to act so petulant, my dear boy. What would you have me call you? Voldemort?"

"_Lord _Voldemort!" The reply was immediate, automatic.

The old man shook his head slowly, as if in regret. Slowly, creakily, he pushed himself from his seat on the grass, wearily fluttering his robes to dislodge stray insects and loose blades of grass. Smoothing his sleeves, he peered over his half-moon spectacles, the crystal blue eyes piercing.

"How the times have changed. Tom Marvolo Riddle, all grown up. Whoever knew it would come to this?" he mumbled to himself.

Lord Voldemort did not appear to have noticed that the other man had spoken, and he immediately began speaking, his words harsh and demanding.

"Now tell me, omniscient old man, why am I here? Why is it that a little boy, so young, can best me in a duel? Why is it that magic no longer cooperates with me? How the times have changed! Lord Voldemort, at his apex, without magic! _Did you know it would come to this_?"

Albus Dumbledore smiled, a sad little smile that held no happiness. "Perhaps you might explain? A wizard cannot be deprived of his magic."

"Perhaps you might explain _this_!" With a flourish of his wand, a golden light spewed forth, twisting and twirling into a dancing helix of lights. Another swish and he lowered his wand, his breath emitting forth like harsh gasps. "_What have you done_?" he thundered.

The voice rang in the silence, hanging in the air before floating away. The air seemed to shudder, as if tainted by evil, and the lights began to flitter and disperse. They pulsed, individual sparkles of light, and slowly came to land on the headmaster. The miniature glows seemed to calm, their lights steady once more, lighting the old man in an almost surreal aura.

"I? I have done nothing, Tom Marvolo Riddle. It is you who have destroyed yourself. Your magic is not gone, but your darkness is. This is why you can cast no spells, only this." He gestured to the light that surrounded him. "I praise the young man who has banished the evil from you, because it is no simple thing to do. Perhaps you know what the golden light is that comes from your wand?"

"Fireflies," he spat, disgusted.

"Precisely! And do you know what they mean?"

Lord Voldemort opened his mouth, as if to answer, then shut it with a snap. His eyes narrowed, as if he could never be reduced to saying such a mundane answer. The headmaster, as a teacher and a mentor, took the opportunity to tell the answer himself.

"Their message is one of welcome. Their lights, however small they may be, float in the darkness to guide the way back home, like lanterns that never get lost. I don't suppose this is your home?" His eyes twinkled, filled with amusement once again.

"This?" he gestured wildly at the landscape about him, serene and calm and…simply beautiful. "This is not my home, and it never will be!"

With a swish of robes, the figure dashed away, head bent low as his robes swirled behind him. The remaining figure, still adorned with lights, watched until the other was but a speck in the distance, swallowed up by the landscape. Softly, he began to speak, his voice but a whisper to himself, the air, and the fireflies.

"He will be back, but never will he take away the home of another innocent in the other world. Have we all come to rest in our final places of welcome?" he wondered aloud, raising his head to look at the rapidly darkening night sky. Then he sighed, as if pondering such a matter would come to nothing. "I trust in the old ways of magic…welcome home."

As one, the fireflies lifted and flew away, their lights swirling ever up. As the night descended, the stars began to twinkle, looking exactly like the fireflies that had just returned home.

* * *

Author's Notes: Finished! I can't say I'm pleased with the result, but I suppose this is what happens when one stalls too long on something like this. Thank you to all of you who took the time to read this.


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